On Reading The Last Psalm Poem by Andrew Lee

May She keep close.
Closer than our translucent skin.
She comes from the sky within,
consoling, faceless, but appreciates more faces
than we can see in a lifetime.

Together we go beyond nearby streams and hills.
We rise above the shoulders of cypresses and pines.
Go beyond farms, vineyards, lakes and valleys,
touching the high points of fatherly mountains.
Perhaps unseen aspects of the world find us then,
the genesis of Meaning.

Perhaps she brings us to visit a pearl.
It illuminates riverbeds and yet-to-be-discovered
species, flora and fauna.
They open their eyes, ears, limbs, to become aware.
Perhaps she transforms us into spores.
We travel far on sunbeams.
Or She changes us into breaths of dawn.
We linger above half-rousing saplings
before we come upon a rare find:
the quiet of a lily pond.
We become ensconced in her palms, falling asleep.

Waking up, we become lost in time, a moonlit vista.
It reflects beyond-this-world journey-work.
Her feminine brightness mirrors a childhood earth:
surreal, undressed, pristine in many ways,
lighting up the half-blue sky,
like a huge crystal ball who understands human hearts.

We surprise ourselves by saying:
'That kind of surreality, that crystal ball
lighting up the sky is also down here on earth.'
If we travel on a beam
and enter her Crescent's kingdom,
from there, we can watch our planet
and be amazed by earth's brightness.

When we travel back to earth,
we touch the morning pure
as it spreads across the sky
until we sense the dance of moonlight,
smaller, clearer, touchable,
on our palms.